


Cough Syrup

by loghain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:58:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loghain/pseuds/loghain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a third visit from Sam in the hospital, Castiel wakes up. He's half-broken and still suffering from hallucinations of Lucifer, but he's alive. He and Sam manage to reconcile, but Dean is a different story. With Dean angry and their relationship all but broken, Castiel turns another way. Sam/Castiel focus, with a side of Castiel/Dean. Warnings for cheating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cough Syrup

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the sassyexchange2012 on tumblr. Title comes from the song of the same name, with the lyric, "I'm waiting for this cough syrup to come down".

“You know, most people bring flowers,” Meg observes, walking a pace ahead of Sam down the corridor. She’s got too much swagger to her step to be a convincing nurse, but she’s found a way to turn down the dial from eleven to maybe five, pulling off the appearance of confident and charming as opposed to dangerous. “Instead of essays. I mean, not sure Cas is the reading type lately.” She titters, clearly amused with herself, and Sam scowls at the bare back of her neck, directing a glower into the tidy bun she’s pulled her hair into.

It’s frustrating, that they’ve made another deal with another devil, particularly _this_ devil. Crowley, at least, is convincingly self-serving, so working with him when they did was honest at least. Meg, though. Meg always had a master until Dean shot one and Sam lobbied the other into a hole in the ground, and even now that she’s just another dog howling for scraps, Sam can’t forget that.

It’s difficult to carry on a conversation with something that’s been trying to kill him for years. Worse now that it’s non-optional: they have to play nice or everyone loses.

“It’s one of the books that got written about us,” Sam says stiffly, hefting it between his hands and focusing his eyes on it. It’s just a tatty manuscript, titled ‘It’s The Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester’. He found it - by chance, he’s sure, although it was kind of weird how it just turned up - at the Montana cabin. It must’ve just been ditched there with a bunch of things. Sam didn’t even realize they’d taken any of Chuck’s manuscripts. Meg gives him a bemused look, and Sam wrinkles his nose. “We had a prophet and everything.”

“Wow,” Meg muses, turning her whole body to look him up and down, her eyebrows waggling. “Heaven was really eager to get their hams on you boys if you earned yourself gospel status. It’s almost a shame my father didn’t get to burn up the world.” Sam’s glare deepens. He has to hand it to Meg - she’s as devoted as they come. Still calling Lucifer her father when he’s long been re-imprisoned. Still a loyalist, and Sam knows that’s most of the reason that she’s been baying for Crowley’s blood. He’s a usurper and a traitor as far as she’s concerned. Meg grins at him. “What a pretty little bible that would’ve made.”

She turns back, facing forward again, and they hang a left down the hall. “Where’s Dean-o?”

“Busy,” Sam mutters. He’d been hoping Meg would just not bother talking about Dean, since the past two visits he hadn’t even merited a mention, but Dean’s absence from these trips is getting noticeable. “He’s taking down a ghost a few hours south.”

“Thought you two were joined at the hip,” she remarks, “and failing that, I always thought him and poor drooling Cas had something special.” Sam scratches the back of his neck uncomfortably and mumbles assent. They did, but only God knows what Dean and Castiel are now. They didn’t get the chance to really try to make amends. “I figured he’d be more willing to come visit. All three times now, Sammy, s’just been you. I’m starting to think the big bro doesn’t love the little seraph anymore.”

“Dean’s got - ”

“Better things to do?”

“No,” Sam says firmly. He’s tried persuading Dean to come, but he knows he won’t, not until something actually happens. Dean found it hard enough to watch Cas slip from being terrified from them into an expressionless catatonic state as it was. Sam knows he doesn’t want to visit his angel only to find him unchanged. Dean struggles to handle anything that requires an emotion that isn’t anger, can’t deal right with something he can’t fix with tools or kick in the ass. “He just couldn’t come.”

“If you insist,” Meg says airily, waving a hand and coming to a stop outside Castiel’s room. She rests her hand on the doorknob, and peers through the glass of the door, her face unexpectedly solemn. “He’s still pretty comatose,” Meg warns, tilting her chin up, flickering her eyes between what’s beyond the glass and Sam’s face. His mouth twists unhappily. “Don’t get your tears all over his blankies if he doesn’t react to your…” She looks down at the manuscript and finishes with a raised eyebrow, “Bedtime story.”

“I know,” Sam breathes, frowning nervously at the door like it’s a gateway to hell. Which it kind of is. Castiel’s hell, and Sam’s, not so long ago. It doesn’t get any better each time he comes here. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Okay.” Meg opens the room on his word, swinging the door open, and Sam steps in ahead of her.

Castiel is laid down, curled up on his side, his back to the door. He looks so small, dressed in white rags, his bare feet tucked up and crossed over. They’re clean and pale underneath. It’s a strangely vulnerable position to see the angel in, almost childlike, and Sam looks back at Meg and asks, as softly as he can, “Is he asleep or something?” Let that be a change. Let him be resting.

She shakes her head firmly, and shuts the door behind herself, stepping closer to Sam and folding her arms. Incredulously, she states, “Angel, dummy. He doesn’t need sleep. Besides, did Lucifer let _you_ nod off?” She jerks her head at Cas. “He’s not changed. Once he stopped seeing folks in dress up as the Devil, anyway. Just sits there and stares at nothing. He changes position every now and then. Sometimes we gotta do it for him, to encourage circulation, prevent sores...” 

Meg trails off listlessly, staring down at Castiel, and then she turns to Sam and says frankly, “Being a nurse is really freaking boring. Fluffy here is the easiest. You should see some of the really crazy ones. It gets gross.”

“Right,” Sam answers, giving her a long, curious look, and then he says, “Uh. Thanks, Nurse Masters. You can go now.”

The demon wiggles her fingers in goodbye and says, “Have fun, kids.”

When the door clicks shut, Sam crosses around to the other side of the bed, and he squats down uncomfortably, trying to catch Castiel’s attention. True to Meg’s word, the angel is awake, but his eyes are empty, a hollow blue that reflects but sees nothing, tracks no movement. He just stares. It’s no different from the other visits. Sam sighs heavily.

“Hey, Cas,” Sam says, and he leans back on one hand, shifting until he’s sat on the floor entirely. “You any closer to coming back to us?” There’s no answer, of course, and despite the sinking feeling in his stomach he tries his best not to be entirely disheartened. He wasn’t really expecting an answer, after all.

Sam can’t pretend he doesn’t have guilt weighing something like a ton on his shoulders. Yeah, Castiel broke his melon open, cracked the damn egg and broke the yolk all over the place, but… something in Sam has always believed Castiel to still be their friend, to be his friend, no matter what he’s done. And his faith - because it is faith - paid off. Cas came back and fixed him and shattered himself in the process.

A clever sacrifice, Sam has to admit. Castiel doesn’t need to eat or sleep so he can tolerate the hallucinations, to an extent. It won’t physically break him or kill him. 

Mentally is a totally different matter. Sam’s really not sure how he feels about putting Cas through the same things he went through. It’s a cruel punishment. It’s not something Sam would wish on his worst enemy. He wouldn’t wish it on Ruby, not on Yellow Eyes, not anyone. Although those two would probably enjoy it.

Sam shakes himself when he realizes he’s been staring, and opens the manuscript, flicking through it. “I found one of Chuck’s books,” he tells Castiel, and after a moment elaborates, “It’s from - about - when we first met. When I first met you. That seal was breaking and you angels wanted to blow up the town.”

Sam kind of feels stupid doing this, but Dean isn’t going to visit, and there’s no lore they know of that’s gonna bring any angel out of a hell-coma. So instead he’s trying methods used on people in regular comas - reading, talking as if they can hear and hoping that they can. Sam watches as Castiel blinks, and asks quietly, “We didn’t exactly get off on a good foot, did we?” He clears his throat and murmurs, “I’m kinda hoping some of this might get to your brain, Cas. Make you fight, or something. We need you back. Dean needs you back, I guess.”

Sam finds the page he’d dog-eared earlier and begins to read, “‘Sam and Dean approached the hotel room, and Sam pushed open the door. Immediately, he saw two figures inside, and pulled his gun, yelling, “Who are you?” Dean rushed up behind him, shouting for him to wait, and revealing in a hushed tone, “It’s Castiel. The angel.” As Sam’s face fell in open awe’ - Open awe? This is bull crap.” Sam tries to laugh, but Castiel, lying prone on the bed, just blinks and shakes his head, a minute movement that Sam wouldn’t have caught if he hadn’t been looking so closely. 

A frown tugs at his mouth. He wonders if Castiel is responding to Lucifer in his mind, or if he’s actually hearing or seeing something. He decides to keep reading, “‘Dean pushed the gun down and looked to the other stranger. “Him I don’t know.” Sam’s face split into a garish smile as Castiel turned to him and said, “Hello Sam” in that honey-gravel voice of his.’ Honey gravel, that’s - that’s new.”

Sam shifts, crossing his long feet at the ankles and propping his elbow up on the edge of Castiel’s bed. “‘Sam gasped and exclaimed excitedly, “Oh my god!” before he immediately stumbled, “Er, uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to… It’s an honor.” Sam stepped forward, his eyes wide and childlike, as Castiel stared back almost expressionless.’”

The description hits a little close to home, Sam thinks, eyeing Cas as he is now. “This is stupid,” he tells his friend. “Chuck’s not even a good writer.” Still, he perseveres, and reads, “‘“Really,” Sam blurted, “I’ve heard a lot about you,” and held out his hand to be shaken. Castiel stared down at it. Sam waited expectantly and nervously. “And I you,” Castiel replied eventually, taking Sam’s hand in his. He enveloped the grip with his other hand and continued, “Sam, the boy with the demon blood.” Sam’s face fell.’”

Sam closes the manuscript. Perhaps it wasn’t the greatest idea to read this to Cas after all. All it’s done is remind him how crappy a job that was, and how crappy a person he thought Castiel was at the time. It took months to really change that attitude. Hell, it basically took Castiel getting himself killed for them for him to believe that Cas was anything but another of those asshole angels. 

“You guys pretty quickly shattered how I thought angels were supposed to be. My idea of you guys being merciful and righteous. Of being… good, really. I was real upset. Dean hadn’t had a devout day in his life, sure, but I’d been praying for years, and...” He chews the inside of his cheek absently and changes tack, saying, “But you are good, aren’t you, Cas? You’re my friend. More to Dean. You’ve done a lot for us.”

Sam wants to tack a cheap, I’m-sorry-it-ended-this-way comment on the bottom of that, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he flicks through the book, reading random scenes in his head, until it feels pointless and he just says, “I really hope you get through this, Cas. You’re stronger than me. I hope you can make it.”

+++

The ghost that Dean has been chasing instead of visiting Castiel turns out to be part of a big, old and ugly as hell family hex, Dean informs Sam half a day later. “Including - get this - a cursed shotgun.”

“Damn,” Sam murmurs, sinking back in his seat and scratching his head. “Haven’t we had our fill of cursed crap this year already?” Sam groans, staring at the black screen of his laptop where he’s been contemplating turning it on to waste a few hours browsing, maybe trying to scrounge up more information on the Leviathan or anything that could help Cas. “I thought the exposure of your ballet fetish was bad enough.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean mutters, and Sam can almost hear the shudder in his voice at the memory. “Y’know though, at least cursed shoes don’t backfire and cave a guy’s face in then try and shoot the nearest available person. Which happened to be me.”

Sam’s eyebrows go up. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I wrestled the damn thing into a curse box. What is it about boxes with multiple locks and warding sigils on that makes people think, ‘Man, I have to open this’?”

Sam scoffs and puts forward with all the brotherly grace that he can, “Need me to drive out and join you?” It’s a half-hearted offer. Sam’s tired, and there’s an unopened beer just beyond his laptop with his name on it. He’s keen to just while away a couple more hours then get a good night’s sleep; visiting Cas is always an odd brief respite from the nightmare that has been the year so far.

“No, man,” Dean brushes him off and Sam lifts his eyes skyward in silent thanks and relief. “I’ll be three days, tops. It’s not that I don’t appreciate your assistance, Sammy, but I can handle this.” Sam nods even though Dean can’t see him, and just as he’s about to do the sensible thing and actually vocally acknowledge his brother, Dean clears his throat and asks, his voice considerably more dour, “How’s Cas?”

Sam sits back in his chair with a long sigh, turning his gaze to the manuscript dumped on his bedside. “He’s fine. I read some of Chuck’s stuff to him. Probably made it worse. I wouldn’t wanna come out of a coma if I had to listen to that garbage.”

“Sam,” Dean says tiredly, his voice a warning. “Come on.”

Sam chews his lip, and huffs. He doesn’t want to make it any more painful for Dean than it already must be. He doesn’t want to go into detail about Castiel’s state of being, particularly when so little - when nothing - has changed. Reluctantly, he admits, “He’s just lying there, Dean. When he does do something I can’t tell if he’s responding to me or the damn Devil. It’s difficult. And Meg doesn’t seem optimistic.”

“The bitch is a demon,” Dean points out, his voice gruff. “I don’t know if her idea of optimism is anything like ours.” He sighs audibly, voice crackling the phone line a little, and says, “I don’t know why I keep hoping for him to just snap out of it. He can’t handle Lucifer any better than you could.”

Sam pulls a face at that, but says nothing as Dean continues, “I’ll catch up with you in a couple of days, Sam.”

He hangs up without a goodbye, without a pause for response, and Sam sighs and reaches for that beer.

+++

Two days pass in the motel room, consisting of roughly nothing. Sam spends them reading and researching things they already know or have gone over before, hoping to gleam something new that can help them one way or another. He only leaves to find food and stock up on drinks. On the third day, Sam wakes shortly before dawn, murky orange light is filtering through the blinds and without needing to pause or look around, Sam knows he’s not alone. Automatically, he cautiously reaches for the gun by his bedside and curls his fingers around the grip.

“Sam,” says his company, and with a long, brittle sigh, he breathes, “You’re awake.”

Sam drops the gun and turns from his stomach onto his back, eyes wide as he sits up and stares down at the opposite end of the room. He knows that voice, and sure enough in the dark, Castiel is sat, the manuscript of Chuck’s book in his hands. He peers at Sam from the gloom. “I startled you.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam breathes, throwing the sheets aside and swinging his legs out, tugging his T-shirt down as he walks down to sit opposite the angel. “Sitting in my room whilst I’m sleeping will do that.” He’s groggy with sleep still, half convinced that the fuzzy vision before him is a dream, but when he rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes and clears them, the angel is still sat there, aloof and familiar in the way that only Castiel can be.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, blinking, and Sam swallows dryly. He’s not sure how to react. Should he be jumping up and down, celebrating, hugging Cas? Crying? He doesn’t feel the urge to do any of those things, but he feels an overwhelming sense of relief to look into those eyes and find them full of life, looking over him with the burning intensity that they used to.

He’s also confused. “How are you here?” He scrutinizes the angel’s appearance, finding him dressed in the clothes that must belong to Emmanuel Allen, Castiel’s alter ego of sorts, with Jimmy Novak’s old overcoat pulled over them.

“I taught myself to differentiate between what was real and what was Lucifer’s games,” Castiel says, thumbing through the manuscript slowly. A strange memory comes to the front of Sam’s mind - something Dean told him about how Castiel had actually liked Chuck’s books for some strange reason. _Nerd angel,_ says Dean’s voice in his head. “Each time you visited me in the hospital, I could make… I could force Lucifer back from my sight. I could make him weaker. Your presence gave me the motivation I needed. You and your brother taught me to fight and stand up, Sam, and I…”  

He trails off, and closes the manuscript, lying it down on the table. Castiel purses his lips and looks Sam directly in the eye, holding his gaze. Sam does his best to not let it get to him, to not look away despite the crawling sensation that runs down his spine. “Having you and the recent memories of you, they were stronger sensations than Lucifer’s torture.”

Sam swallows again, huffing in disbelief, and he asks, “You knew I was there?”

“Yes,” Castiel answers, and he eyes the manuscript again. “I’m sorry that I could not respond. I didn’t trust myself, my body. I retreated inside.” Sam nods, recalling the demon he drained before destroying Lilith; she shrank into her subconscious, letting the possessed girl come to the fore. He figures that Cas did a similar thing, and of all the actions he could take it makes the most sense. “With Jimmy Novak’s soul having long passed, I was safe, and not a threat. A shell.”

“That still doesn’t explain how you managed to get well enough to come here,” Sam says, and then he realizes, “How did you even find me? I didn’t call and I thought I still had angel-block on my ribs.”

“This book,” Castiel says, laying a hand on it. “It wasn’t easy. Following objects rarely is. I wound up in several wrong places with wrong manuscripts before I found you here,” he confesses, looking abashed. Castiel takes a moment - in which Sam frowns at him - and then says, “I simply found myself with a new strength. I don’t know what happened.” Castiel rubs his temple with two fingers, his brow creasing. “I feel better.” 

Sam raises a doubtful eyebrow. He knows the pain of the hallucinations. He knows how bad it can be. Most of all, he knows how to lie to people about it. Sam folds his arms and asks, softly, “But how’s your head really? Like, right now?”

Castiel looks at him for a while, silent, a muscle clenching in his jaw. Finally, his face crumples, contorting in pain, and he covers his eyes with both hands. “It feels like he’s ripping me from the inside out,” the angel moans, rocking forward. Sam lurches out of his seat to grab Cas by his arms as his friend begs, “Sam, I’m so sorry I put you through this, I should never - ” He cuts himself off with a renewed cry of pain, and Sam hauls all six foot of him down onto the bed, hissing encouragement as he does.

“Come on, Cas,” he urges, kneeling next to the bed and trying to get the angel to look at him. “Lucifer’s not real, Cas. He’s in the cage, six hundred thousand feet under, he can’t hurt me - ” He doesn’t know where that comes from, some kind of automatic self-assurance in the middle of this mess, but he ignores it, gets a hand firmly along one side of Castiel’s face and grips him, “and he can’t hurt you. He’s not real.” 

He punctuates each word harshly, and says it until Castiel’s eyes open and he stops quaking. Sam smiles hesitantly at him, and Castiel stares up at him before something just as unexpected as the rest of this morning happens: his eyes roll up into his skull and the angel passes out.

“Dammit,” Sam mutters, slapping each side of Castiel’s face lightly, checking his pulse and breathing. He’s alive, that’s something at least. Sam shifts his head onto the pillow and gets him in what he hopes is a comfortable position, then grabs his cell phone off the bedside table and wanders down to the other end of the room.

He dials, and Dean picks up the phone with a groan and a gravelly, irritated, “What?”

“Dean,” Sam says, and wonders how to phrase this. He takes the blunt directive and says, still barely able to process or believe the words himself, “Cas is here.”

There’s a beat and then Dean intones disbelievingly, “What?” He sounds much more awake already, and Sam can hear him shifting around, climbing out of bed or wherever he fell asleep. “Come on, Sam, don’t leave me hanging here, what the hell?”

“I woke up and he was just here, Dean, I’m as surprised as you are,” Sam breathes, turning to look at where Castiel is laid out on his back, his chest rising and falling in even, sleepy breathing. It’s better than the thrashing, but not by much. He hopes this isn’t another coma; it doesn’t look like it, but it’s not as though he can be sure. The last time he saw the angel asleep, he was barely an angel at all, fallen, weak, in disgrace and resting in the back of the car.

The circumstances now aren’t all that different, so Sam hopes it really is just sleep. “Well? How is he?” Dean demands, cursing under his breath and clomping around.

“He’s asleep,” Sam tells Dean, walking up the room closer to Castiel, keeping an eye on him. “He says he’s alright, but then he… He had some sort of Hell-fit.” He turns his back on Cas again. Unable to stop himself, Sam blurts, “This isn’t right, Dean. He’s got my memories, my broken dam, my hallucinations. Mine. Castiel shouldn’t have those. He was the one responsible for dragging me out of there.”

“He was friggin’ responsible for breaking the wall in the first place too, Sam,” Dean responds, with a vicious kind of venom in his voice that Sam wasn’t expecting. He’s not sure Dean expected it either. He stammers, and Dean cuts him off with, “Give me your location, Sam. I’m done here. I’m coming there now.” Sam obliges, and Dean questions, “How’d he slip past Annie Wilkes’s alarms?”

“I don’t know. Meg hasn’t called, so she’s dead, doesn’t know, or has stabbed us in the back again.” He takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and shaking his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his spare hand. “I don’t know,” he repeats. “Cas didn’t just break me. He fixed me, too,” he reminds Dean, but his brother just says “I’ll be there in less than four hours” and hangs up without a word.

Sam turns to set down the phone and finds Castiel’s eyes, that deep cobalt blue staring up at him from the bed. Sam balks at the idea that Cas actually heard all that, clearing his throat and saying, “Man, you should probably rest.”

Castiel isn’t so keen on avoiding the subject at hand, struggling himself into an upright position and informing Sam, “I made the decision to take your memories, Sam. I wasn’t going to leave you to crumble beneath Lucifer’s grip. Dean called me brother - family - once, which makes you a brother of mine.” Sam swallows uneasily as the angel looks up at him, and for the first time Sam realizes how heavy Castiel’s gaze is, with the weight of everything he’s done and the regret.

“I would not let you, my brother, die knowing I could stop it,” Castiel says, “especially knowing it was my fault to begin with.”

Sam sinks down to sit on the edge of the bed, leaning forward heavily, elbows on his knees, fingers clasped together. “You’re too damn much like Dean,” he acknowledges, glancing to see Castiel’s brow crease in a frown. It’s true, in a million ways. The angel’s modeled his humanity after his older brother, and even without that, they’re similar people. Both children of an absent father, obedient soldier sons with the weight of the world - or in Dean’s case, a younger brother - on their shoulders. He expands on his particular meaning in this instance, though. “Too ready to toss yourself in front of a train.”

Castiel counters with a confused, “Sam, I learned the sacrifice of family from the both of you.”

Sam shakes his head and tries to go back to his initial starting subject, glancing at the exhaustion in the lines of his friend’s face and insisting, “You need the rest, Cas. You look like crap and… if Lucifer tries to mash in your skull again...” He waits a beat and tacks on the knowledge that he’s sure Cas already overheard, “Dean’s on his way. He’ll be here in a few hours.”

The angel looks down at himself and huffs, clearly irritated with his own fragility. “The effort of travel, it weakened me. It allowed the visions to become sharp again.” He shifts again, pulling his legs off the bed so that he’s sat beside Sam. “I believe if I act as a human I will be able to recover easier than… than relying on my power alone. Eat, sleep…”

“Maybe change your clothes,” Sam interjects, with a note of levity. Castiel’s eyes soften, and there’s a moment, where they just look at each other, and Sam feels lighter. They’ve all screwed the pooch in a major  fashion one way or another, he thinks, and maybe Dean’s never quite forgiven him for all but strangling him and Sam’s never forgiven Dean for losing faith in him more than once, but they’ve muddled by. Family forgets if they can’t forgive, and like Castiel said. Dean called them family once. Castiel is allowed to drop the ball.

Castiel has died for his mistakes. Died, been brought back, allowed to build a life, made to suffer his mistakes in a flood of memory, and then he took on Sam’s too. He’s paid enough. 

Sam breaks eye contact with the angel, suddenly uncomfortable. He looks at the floor instead, licking his lips uncertainly. He wants to ask if Castiel ever felt as weak as Sam did, as helpless against the things he knew, in his heart, weren’t even real but… He wants to know if there was ever a moment Castiel couldn’t tell.

It’s another question for another day, Sam thinks, but as he turns to tell Cas to rest before Dean turns up and interrogates him, Castiel says, “Sam, I was… frightened. It still is frightening. I am millions of years old, Sam Winchester. I saw this planet burn your dinosaurs to dust when I was still too young to comprehend my Father’s will.”

Castiel pauses, deep in thought, and Sam finds himself leaning in, caught in the spell of his friend’s words. “I have battled into Hell, twice. When I reached your brother first, wrestled Alastair’s knife from his hand and I carried him from those foul depths, seeing the ruin such a human soul could become… I thought I knew terror. And again, when I stole into the cage and brought you - brought part of you home. It’s…” His face turns weary again, “It’s nothing, compared to the slow wear of Lucifer. I feel terrified.”

He looks almost ashamed as he finishes, “I am older than the smallest, crawling fish, and I am frightened by my older brother.”

Sam nods, slowly, and tells Castiel, “He scares me too.”

Castiel doesn’t reply then, just simply looks at him, and Sam expects to hear something supercilious like “but you’re only human”, and it never comes. The air is thick with something palpable that Sam can’t put his finger on, something like a kinship of shared experience and the burden of terror. And something else. They’re too close for comfort, Sam realizes, his thigh pressed flat along Castiel’s, and he doesn’t know how that happened.

“Hunker down and sleep before Dean gets here,” Sam finally chokes out, and he stands, walking away and shutting himself in the bathroom where he can finally breathe.

+++

When Dean gets there in well under four hours, he doesn’t announce his arrival gently. Sam’s drifting off to sleep in a chair, leant forward with his elbows on the table, and the angel’s asleep on his side on the bed; and at the door, Dean’s fist slams against it repeatedly.

Sam jerks awake, blinking sharply, reflexively snapping into a defensive posture as he stumbles out of his seat before he’s at all reasonably conscious. On the bed, Castiel’s eyes have opened and he’s heaving himself into a seated position. The banging at the door sounds again, and Sam hollers throatily, “Hold on!” He grabs jeans off the floor and tugs them on - it hadn’t crossed his mind to do that when Cas woke up him up, because it seemed pointless, but it seems only right to actually get dressed now. 

Hands fastening his button together, he approaches and opens the door as casually as he can muster, pulling it back and stepping aside as Dean strides in with only a sidelong glance to his younger brother. Dean comes to a stop in the middle of the room, his back to Sam as he faces Castiel, shoulders stiff and fists clenching. Cas is stood upright now, his hair a sleep-tousled mess, hands limply by his side. He tips his chin down, something unreadable in his eyes and he says, in that slow deep voice of his, “Dean.”

Dean’s shoulders shake, just a fraction, and Sam pulls his eyes from the scene as his brother says, “Damn it, Cas.” Dean takes a step forward, and Sam takes the opportunity to pull on shoes and slip out of the room without a word. There’s something about this reunion that Sam can’t help but think he shouldn’t really be seeing. Dean and Castiel are a complicated mess, they always have been, and this is their first real chance to talk since…

Well, since Cas walked into that lake, Sam supposes, but upon consideration he thinks it must be since they found Castiel way off the beaten track and working with Crowley. He lets the door close with a quiet click behind him, but unable to stop himself he peers through the crack in the curtains of the motel window as he passes by it, hesitating.

Sam can’t hear what’s being said, but both brother and angel look equally tormented as they exchange words, and then in a long moment of silence Dean crosses the room and kisses Castiel. It doesn’t look sweet or full of love and romance, but something infinitely more painful instead.

Sam swallows. That lump in his throat is back. He walks away.

+++

“Hey, man,” Dean greets him gruffly when Sam finally returns to the motel room. He’d left everything behind except his clothes, it seems, so Sam’s not exactly certain of how long he’s been gone, but the sun’s hot as hell in the sky - unseasonably warm, in fact. The peak of the day’s come and can’t be long before going, so Sam’s sure that he’s left his brother and the angel for long enough that they’ve worked out their issues one way or another.

“Hey,” Sam says, flickering his eyes around the room. Dean’s bent over the bed, sorting out articles of clothing and miscellaneous weaponry and items, and he looks drained but somehow better than Sam’s seen him in a while. It’s a start. There’s no sign of the angel, though, save for the overcoat, rolled up on the pillow. “Where’s Cas?”

Dean straightens his shoulders, licking his lips before he says proudly, “Shaving.” Sam’s brow furrows and Dean grins, remarking, “Man, I know, right? Ten bucks he manages to nick his own artery or something, though.” He chortles, tossing a can of deodorant from hand to hand before he sticks it up his shirt and applies it, white fumes pouring out of the neck of his shirt and out the bottom.

Sam coughs, waving a hand, and he steps forward and asks cautiously, “You and Cas okay?”

Dean shrugs, noncommittal, and tells him, “Day at a time, Sammy. He’s alive, only half-broke, and that’s a start. Gotta…” When Sam gives him a long, skeptical look, Dean trails off and shrugs again, admitting, “I don’t know.”

Sam nods. That’s all he’s going to get out of Dean, he can tell. They both turn as the bathroom door opens, and a clean-shaven, considerably more tidy Castiel emerges, his hand at his throat. He draws it away, two fingers wet with red from a cut on his neck, and Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam in a _see, I told you_ gesture.

Sam’s more concerned with what Castiel’s wearing, though. Gone is the fleece pull over and grey pants of Emmanuel - instead, he’s dressed in a too-big Black Sabbath shirt, the collar loose against his skinny neck, and Sam recognizes it as a shirt belonging to Dean. The jeans, too, which are too long and drag over Castiel’s bare feet.

“Do I have to wear these?” Castiel grouses. “I have enough power to keep my clothing clean and intact until I can find something else. These are ill-fitting.”

“You said your mojo’s low, Cas, don’t you think you should save it for something more important than friggin’ shaving and laundry?” Dean retorts. “You’re the one who said you should play the human. You acted it with a wife and family home and everything for long enough, don’t flap about it being a hardship now.” He reaches for Emmanuel’s pants, yanking the belt from them and chucking them at the angel. Castiel catches it and narrows his eyes as Dean says, “There you go."

Dean has a strange expression on his face, and Sam uncomfortably realizes that Castiel wearing Dean’s clothes has got to be akin to the way Sam felt when he came home one night and found Jess wearing one of his shirts. It’s like a strange kind of intimacy. Sam’s forgotten what it’s like to not be a third wheel to Cas and Dean, but despite the common knowledge of it, they act so secretive of their relationship. Dean keeps it private, Sam supposes. Being around them at times is a lot like watching constant references to an inside joke that he knows exists but doesn’t know the details of.

He turns to Sam and says, “I think we should drive back to Montana. Lay low on the jobs for a little while, let feathers here catch his breath and try to get some more intel on the big mouths.” Sam tries not to notice the irritated glance Dean shoots at Cas, as if reminding him that this is more or less his fault is necessary.

“I don’t know how much we can get without Frank,” Sam says, and Dean sniffs haughtily and throws more things into bags. Returning to the cabin is a good idea, though. It’s a relatively safe place, not to mention comfortable and secluded.

“Come on,” Dean says, tugging everything together. “We should get going.”

+++

The drive from Indiana to Montana is just over a day, and it’s not easy by any stretch of the imagination. Castiel lounges in the back seat, drifting in and out of sleep, and Sam drives the first chunk of the distance. He’s grateful for the chance to focus on the road, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t see Dean and Cas exchanging looks, doesn’t see Dean’s mood shift radically as if he’s trying to decide how to feel.

Castiel strikes up conversation when Dean takes over the wheel, sitting forward so that he is leaning between the two front seats, peering between the brothers. He’s wearing his ratty, bloodied coat for the sake of immediate warmth, but it doesn’t take away how bizarre he looks beneath, the collar of Dean’s shirt pulled at a funny angle and exposing a collarbone. “Does Daphne Allen know I…”

Castiel pauses, contemplative, and Sam watches Dean’s shoulders tense visibly. “Does she know what’s happened?”

“No,” Dean answers testily. Sam hunches his shoulders up and turns to the window, looking away. In an instant the tension is so thick you couldn’t cut through it unless you had an incredibly sharp knife and a really good meat fork. He knows they should’ve contacted Emmanuel’s wife, told her what happened; told her that her husband wasn’t coming home. But they didn’t. 

Castiel’s voice is sharp and angry as he demands, “Why not?”

“Just never got round to it,” Dean bullshits, and Sam tries to hunker down in the seat and make himself as small as he can. 

“Dean,” Cas growls, and Dean slaps a hand against the wheel in exasperation.

“You wanna do this in front of Sam, Cas? Cause I sure as hell don’t,” he snaps, glaring at Castiel in the rearview mirror.

Castiel’s eyes narrow in a challenge, and he says firmly, “Yes.”

Dean inhales deeply, and Sam is contemplating saying something - stepping in to defuse the situation, however he can, but then Dean says, “You want to know why I couldn’t tell her that you were in that hospital? Because she was your goddamn wife. I thought you were _dead_ , man. I thought you were dead for months on end and then I find out that you’re not, you just - you shacked up and fell in love and you were fricking apple pie happy, Cas!”

His voice is raw, upset in a way that Sam’s only seen a handful of times before, and usually it’s enough to knock Sam and anyone else in the vicinity for six, but Castiel is stoic and angry. Dean licks his lips and adds, “I couldn’t tell her that her husband had recovered from his amnesia and that he was sitting in a hospital gone crazy from something entirely different. She’d have come and tried to get you, she’d have - she’d have been the damn good wife that she was, and I - ” Dean cuts himself off with a noisy swallow, and mutters, “Dammit.” He shakes his head.

Castiel seems entirely unsympathetic. He’s looking down at his hands, and Sam casually cranes his neck and sees a flash of gold as Castiel turns Emmanuel’s - his - wedding ring over in his fingers before clenching it in a fist. “I thought you and your brother were about saving people, not leaving them to suffer,” he says, glaring at Dean, and then asks sharply, “Where are we going?”

When Dean doesn’t supply an answer, his knuckles bone-white gripping the wheel and a thousand yard stare plastered across his face, Sam straightens himself and tells Cas, “A cabin up in Whitefish, Montana.”

Castiel turns his eyes on Sam, and the hard edges of his anger soften just a mite as he says, “Thank you, Sam.”

Then he vanishes.

+++

When they get to the cabin, Dean ushers Sam ahead first, asking heatedly, “Is he in there?”

It takes Sam a moment to realize that Dean means their AWOL friend, and he’s tempted to tell Dean to suck it up and find out himself, but he doesn’t. He opens the door a crack, and peers around inside, and sees Castiel curled up asleep, almost catlike on the couch. He turns to Dean and nods.

His brother’s lip curls in distaste and he says, “Yeah, I’m gonna go stock up on food.” Sam shoots Dean an exasperated look, opening his mouth to object - seriously, he can’t just cower away from Cas like this - but Dean throws him a snippy, “Sam. Don’t.” He waves a hand, “I’ll be back later,” and then wanders in the opposite direction of the cabin, getting back in the car and driving off before Sam can object.

One day Dean is going to learn not to run from his problems - from Cas. Sam gets that it’s kind of hard at the moment, with Castiel’s betrayal still sore in the front Dean’s mind, but this right now - Dean sprinting as far away as he can? Sam doesn’t get it. He didn’t, anyway. He does now. Castiel was married, in love with someone else, happy with someone else.

Sam rolls his shoulders and goes into the cabin, shutting the door behind him and making for the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He leans against the counter and, as he’s taking a long drink from the bottle, decides he should wake Castiel up. He doesn’t know how long the guy’s been out, if he’s hurting, or what - and more than anyone else could possibly be, Sam’s conscious of Cas hurting. Of being hurt by Lucifer.

He takes the bottle with him, screwing the lid back on and setting it down beside the couch as he puts a hand down and gently shakes Castiel. The angel jerks awake, eyes shock blue and alarmed, but when he sees Sam looming over him he relaxes and slumps back, eyelids drooping. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey.” Sam draws his hand away from Castiel’s shoulder and moves out of his line of vision, taking a seat at the table. “You found the place alright, then.”

“I had to a small amount of walking,” Castiel says, his voice muffled as his turns onto his side again, face pressing against the fabric of the couch. “I came in two point seven miles away from here. I find myself… exhausted.”

Sam purses his lips. Cas was supposed to be saving his energy, not angrily using the last of it. “How’s your head?”

“Lucifer,” Castiel responds pointedly, “is absent. For now.” There’s a long huffing noise, and then Castiel sits up and looks around the cabin. “Dean didn’t come in. He’s angry with me.” Cas sighs, casting his eyes down. “You and Dean should have told Daphne what happened.”

“Why are you so cut up about that?” Sam asks, and immediately he can tell it’s a stupid question, and from history Sam knows how much Castiel hates stupid questions. Those eyes are on him in an instant, annoyed, but then turn away again, taking in every inch of the cabin. 

“I walked out of the water naked, with no memory,” Castiel says, “and she took me in and cared for me. She helped give me a name, a name with purpose, and when we discovered my talents she was not afraid. She was devout, full of love for God and certain that she was meant to find me and that my gifts were a blessing.” He looks at Sam again and says, “I didn’t remember Dean. If I did, I wouldn’t have married her. But I didn’t remember him and I did love Daphne Allen. She was my wife, she was attacked by a demon because of me, Sam, and then left alone whilst Dean took me away to fix you. She deserved to know what happened to the man she knew as her husband.”

Sam’s forehead creases. “I’m sorry, Cas. I don’t know why we - well, I don’t know why I didn’t push it. I guess we know why Dean didn’t talk to her now.”

“There are a great many things that Dean has done lately that I don’t understand or like,” Castiel says, standing up off the couch and stretching. He paces close to Sam and stands in front of him, frowning down at him. “Why is he angry at me for being with someone when I didn’t know him, when he left me for a woman and a child that isn’t his own? For a year?”

Sam hadn’t really considered that, somehow. Between his lack of soul and his problems in the cage, when Castiel and Dean resumed being whatever they are, he didn’t really process that they’d ever stopped. Of course they had, though. Dean was busy in Cicero with Lisa and Ben, and on Sam’s instruction of all things.

“That’s just Dean,” Sam supplies poorly. He doesn’t have an answer for why Dean is the way he is with Castiel. He’s never had that sort of answer. You can’t research or Google ‘why does my brother act like an ass to the guy he’s in love with?’ and get a clear-cut response.

“I have hurt you considerably,” Castiel says, “but you have been better than your brother.”

He lays a hand on the side of Sam’s face, leans down, and kisses him. Not some sweet, chaste kiss, either, but a full bodied thing that he leans into, claiming Sam’s mouth without a word. Sam kisses back without thinking about what he’s doing or who he’s kissing; he only knows that Cas’s mouth is soft, his kisses firm, and he tastes metallic and zingy and Sam wants more of it.

But then he does come to and nearly keels his chair over backwards trying to break the kiss; hell, he does tip it backwards, but Castiel’s hand snatches out and stops it from buckling. They hover, nose to nose, and Sam says, “Cas, you’re - with - ”

In a low, rough voice that rolls through Sam’s entire body and goes - shamefully - straight to Sam’s dick, Castiel informs him, “Your brother doesn’t own me. I am not his angel. Not his pet.”

Still, Cas backs off, returning to the couch and sitting down. Sam stares at the back of his head, eyes wide, and opens his mouth to speak. Words fail to come. Instead, he’s stuck thinking, about the bad start he had and the bad things Cas has done but then, inevitably, about the way that Castiel has died for him on more than one occasion, about Castiel’s efforts to shield him from harm, how he dragged Sam from hell, the way that Castiel damn near destroyed himself and still suffers, all for Sam.

It’s when he starts considering that maybe Dean doesn’t deserve Castiel that he realizes that yeah, he wants Castiel. If he didn’t he wouldn’t be thinking like that, and he wouldn’t have become so uncomfortable in the motel room when they were close and hell, he probably wouldn’t be so forgiving of Castiel’s actions unless he _felt_ something.

“Cas,” Sam stammers, standing up. His knees are shaking, but he knows what he’s going to do and he knows Dean is probably never going to forgive him but he’s not going to back down, so he crosses the room. Castiel rises to meet him, and they crash together, Sam’s hands finding an anchor on Cas’s waist and around his back, their mouths meeting again. 

Sam leads the kiss this time, eager to take control, pulling Cas against him and leaning to compensate for the height difference. The angel runs hot, it turns out, because Sam can really feel him, the warmth of his skin through Dean’s old clothes pressed up against his front. 

“Cas,” he repeats, breaking away for gulps of air, pressing his face against the angel’s neck, nuzzling down against his shoulder. He wants this, but it doesn’t feel good, not in the way it’s supposed to, but now he can’t seem to let go.

Castiel’s arms circle him, fingers tangling into his hair, and he says, “It’s alright, Sam.”

Sam moans, low and broken and mournful as he takes fistfuls of his friend’s coat in his hands, and he questions, “You think?”

“Yes,” Cas confirms, and he kisses the top of Sam’s head, nose brushing against his hair. Sam lets go of him, then, taking a step back and looking him up and down, at his mussed hair and the intense eyes and the strange line between strength and fragility that has always been Castiel. 

Sam pulls his jacket off and sets it down on the couch, his shirt next, and then he waits like a challenge. Castiel looks him up down, and Sam’s taken aback by just how searing his gaze is, how fervent and fiery. Even half-dressed he feels entirely stripped under it; he has a feeling even if he still had all his clothes on he would, because that’s just how Castiel is, all piercing eyes at any given time and, right now, there’s something new that Sam’s not been exposed to before, a kind of simmering vehemency.

Sam’s starting to think he’s sorely misjudged this just when Castiel pulls the coat from his shoulders, letting it crumple around his feet as he sheds Dean’s shirt, pulling it over his head. Castiel’s kind of wiry, with skin stretched too tight over bones, a flat stomach and sharp hips, and Sam gets close before the shirt hits the ground so he can touch Cas, laying his hands against his waist, bending and pressing their foreheads together. 

He just feels Castiel, for the moment, and then remembers what they’re doing and what he wants and he circles them to the couch, pushing Castiel down onto it, going down with him. It crosses his mind that his brother’s probably done this with Cas, falling together onto the nearest furniture because they just want it so bad. The thought churns his stomach and reminds him that they’re doing a bad thing, but when has that ever stopped anyone from doing something? From taking what they want?

Of course, he can’t justify it, but he pushes guilt and conscience to the very back of his mind and kisses Castiel’s chest, sinking his teeth against a sharp collarbone. He puts his mouth everywhere, all over the heat of Castiel’s skin, reveling in the arch of the angel’s spine, curving towards his touch.

“Sam,” Cas groans, and Sam presses his thigh up to and against his crotch. Castiel’s hard, and Sam grins breathlessly, rubbing his thigh against him, hot sparks running down his spine when Cas makes a low, sharp noise.

Sam’s thinking of the way to tease Cas best when, unexpectedly, the scrawny angel grabs him and shoves him away, hands in an iron grip on his shoulders as he manipulates Sam and in a matter of moments, Sam’s sat on his back with a lapful of Castiel.

He stares up at Cas, wide-eyed, hard as a rock and in total astonishment. He’d forgotten just how strong angels are, and even weak and half-human as he is, Castiel is only moved if he wants to be moved, and he can - and does, it seem - take charge as and when he wants. Holy hell, that’s hot.

Castiel rolls his hips down against Sam’s, his lips parted as he stares openly into Sam’s eyes. It should be weird, the way it is when anyone holds eye contact for too long, but it’s not. Sam’s turned on like nothing else, and he splays his hands against Castiel’s hips, sliding round to grasp his backside. He jerks his hips up against Castiel’s and moans, reaching up with one hand to clutch the back of his neck and pull the angel down into a kiss.

He’s somehow surprised when Castiel’s hand slips between them, palm turned inwards as he presses it against Sam’s cock through layers of jeans and underwear, squeezing generously. It’s like an action he never expected, but boy does it thrill him; this whole thing does. His heart is hammering in his chest, he’s sure he’s sweating a little and he’s so desperate that he almost thinks he could burst into flames; and that’s just from this, from being chest-to-chest and rutting with and kissing Castiel.

“Cas,” Sam says, because he’s reduced down to saying names because he can’t quite think of what to say to convey where he wants this to go. He wants - he wants more, he wants to know what Castiel looks like when he comes, find out if he’s loud or quiet or…

It’s like Castiel reads his mind (on reflection, there’s every chance he did), because not a moment too soon he climbs off Sam’s lap, unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his borrowed jeans. He sheds his second skin of clothing in its entirety, and Sam kind of stares in a strange fractured awe before he decides he should probably do similar.

He has the foresight to pull his wallet out of the pocket of his jeans before they’re a tangled pile on the floor with his boxers. Sam knows he’s got a condom tucked away in there; something of a remnant from his adventures without a soul. Normally they’re too busy trying to stop the end of the world to have the time for sex and condoms are never part of their shopping list.

Before long he has Castiel back in his lap, naked and hot to the touch, kissing him again. Sam rolls him over, pinning the angel beneath him, and ruts up against him, rubbing the lengths of their cocks together. Castiel arches his back, his knees up and legs parted, fingers digging into the expanse of Sam’s back.

“I’m gonna just,” Sam starts, reluctantly prying himself from Castiel to get his wallet, “Hold on.” He pulls out the foil packet, and when he meets eyes with the angel, he’s being frowned at. “What?”

“Is that necessary?”

Sam looks at him incredulously. “You slept with Daphne, right?” Castiel nods. “You also slept - sleep with Dean, Dean’s slept with at least two girls in every state, and I slept with anything warm when I didn’t have a soul. Yeah, I’ll say it’s necessary.”

Castiel’s mouth turns towards, and he sits up, coming nose to nose with Sam. There’s a smile in his eyes as he points out, “I’m still an angel, Sam. Whatever your concerns are…” He lays a hand on Sam’s chest, splaying it out flat, his thumb tracing an old scar. “I’m sure I can manage them.” There’s a moment, then, a second that drags on forever, and Sam inhales sharply without really knowing why.

When he looks down, the scar is gone, Castiel’s thumb rubbing across smooth, unmarked skin. Sam shakes his head and cups Castiel’s face, pulling him into a long, deep kiss before he insists, “Save your angel juice for something important, Cas.”

The angel has slept a lot in the past day alone, exerting himself entirely on travel. Sam doesn’t want him to use his energy up on something like healing unless it’s actually important. Although, that reminds him, and he gets a sinking disappointment in his gut, “I don’t have anything - any, uh - ”

“Lubricant,” Castiel supplies, and he nudges his nose against Sam’s, taking another kiss. “It’s fine, Sam. I’ve done it before, using only saliva.”

Sam tries to bypass how awkwardly, horribly clinical it sounds, and he says, “It’ll hurt. I mean, uncomfortable at best, Cas.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow at him, and he says, “You think you can hurt me?”

He didn’t mean to challenge the angel, but apparently he did, because Castiel pushes them back over so he’s once more on top, straddling Sam’s hips. He determinedly takes the condom from Sam’s hands, opening the packet and shuffling back far enough to take Sam’s cock in his hand, stroking him so he’s completely hard again. He manages to slide the condom on with more finesse than Sam’s ever seen, and then, as he meets Sam’s eyes, he licks a wet stripe along the length of his palm.

Sam’s so distracted by the gesture, the flat of the angel’s tongue and the little blob of spittle that clings to Castiel’s lip afterwards, that he almost doesn’t register the fact that Cas is getting his cock wet. When he does, instead of admiring Castiel’s fingers around him, instead of just totally losing himself in the sensation, he can’t help but wonder what Castiel’s mouth is like. His lips are pink and Sam _knows_ they’re soft, but -

“I like your hands,” Castiel says suddenly, and when Sam’s busy trying to consider what to respond to that with, Castiel shifts forward, reaching behind himself, and then all in one go - in a blur of sensations and visual imagery that’s so difficult to process that Sam thinks he might pass out - he’s suddenly root-deep in hot, slick heat.

He swears loudly, grasping Cas’s hips. The angel is still, his eyes heavy-lidded as he looks down at Sam, reaching for one of the hands on his hips, covering it with one of his own. “Sam,” he groans, and Sam’s prompted into a low moan when Castiel rocks his hips forward and back.

It’s tight. Cas is tight. It’s a little on the dry side, but not enough to make him uncomfortable. He’s most taken aback by the fact that Castiel apparently didn’t feel the need to prep; Sam’s been with the occasional guy who’s just been able to take it, just like that, but somehow with Castiel it’s like a raw shock, like it’s some kind of testament to who and what he is rather than being exceptionally good at relaxing.

Sam experimentally jerks his hips up, digging his heels into the couch, cursing and groaning when the angel responds, sinking back against him, making breathless, desperate sounds. Sam pulls Castiel against him, hands everywhere, mouth pressing into the join of jaw and neck, not even trying to contain each strangled noise that’s drawn out of him.

“Castiel,” he hisses, snagging lips between his teeth and then teasing with tongue. Castiel is a wonder to kiss, with a taste that’s like copper or licking a battery, unnatural but intriguing. Sam wants to taste all of him, see if he’s flavored like that all over, but he settles just for Castiel’s mouth, bruising those pink lips until they’re redder, swollen, and all the while he thrusts his hips in an unsteady rhythm to meet the angel as Castiel bears down against him.

The only sounds in the cabin are theirs, the sound of their mistimed ragged breathing, moans and whispers of names, the slide and slap of skin on skin. When Castiel cries out particularly loud, a shout and then a sharp whimper, it echoes against the room, going right through Sam and down his spine, following the building tightness in his gut. It inspires him to push harder, his thighs shaking as he works to keep driving into Castiel, to keep plucking all those sounds from him.

Sam figures that the angel is close when he stops making the effort to push back against Sam’s cock; instead, Castiel seems to hold on for dear life, moaning roughly against the crook of Sam’s neck, his spine curving every time Sam pushes against his prostate. Sam slides a hand between them, wrapping his fingers around Castiel’s hard length, stroking him and murmuring filthy encouragements. 

A couple of squeezes and jerks more and Castiel’s coming, with a shuddering groan of Sam’s name, his come thick and wet over Sam’s fingers, smearing against both their stomachs where they’re so closely pressed together. It’s all enough that with another generous handful of thrusts, Sam follows him over the edge, letting out a loud, guttural moan as heat flushes through him and he fills the condom, hands squeezing to hold Cas against him.

There’s no sound at all in the cabin now as their breathing returns to normal, although Sam could swear that his heart is going hard enough to be heard way out in the woods. Things are fast becoming sticky and uncomfortable, so Sam kisses Castiel’s shoulder, urging him up and off so that Sam can deal with clean up.

The first real wave of guilt comes when he ties and disposes of the condom. It’s gone as fast as it arrived, but when he looks back at Castiel, his lips kiss red, skin pink, reclining naked on the couch, he’s filled with the knowledge that _he_ did that. He spurred on the events that lead to now, to the angel wiping at the come on his stomach with the heel of one hand, events he had no right to.

Something that belongs to Dean, he thought, but he remembers that Castiel revoked any ownership that Sam’s brother had on him. Sam looks down at himself, and the mess they’ve both managed to make, and he says, “Cas.”

Castiel doesn’t hurry to look at him, his eyes heavy and obviously sleepy, and that tugs at Sam’s heartstrings in a way it shouldn’t. “Come on,” he says, throat dry. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

+++

They’re on the move, after three days of recuperation and reconciliation at the Whitefish cabin. Back on the trail of the Leviathan, and back to trying to stop the world from coming to a bloody end. Sam’s drinking a light beer, leant against the outside of the building, one hand in his pocket and his eyes on the car at the foot of the path.

When Castiel joins him, emerging from the cabin with a pensive expression on his face, Sam sets the beer down by one foot and just looks at him. “You okay?”

“Dean said I was being unhelpful,” Castiel informs him, tilting his head to look up at Sam. He snorts. Castiel expands, “He told me to wait outside whilst he finishes packing the last of your equipment.” Sam nods, and the two of them fall into an easy silence.

Sam thought it would be weirder. The evening that Dean returned, there was no suspicion, and it was easy. It was like Sam had never slept with Cas, and that was honestly fine. He’s no interest in yet another rift with his brother, and besides, there’s _something_ that just makes Sam feel better about the whole thing. He can’t put his finger on it. It’s not like it doesn’t hurt at all. Sam thinks he feels more for Castiel than he should, and it’s not always comfortable to watch Castiel return to some kind of normal relationship with Dean.

“Are you alright, Sam?”

He glances down at Cas and nods. “I’m fine.” The angel peers up at him. “Really, Cas.” He looks unconvinced, but nods assent, and looks forward once more. Sam shakes his head slowly, and with a glance around he admits to Cas, “It’s a little difficult. I didn’t just… I wouldn’t just do that, you know?” He’s never just had sex _just because._ That was Dean’s forte.

“I know,” Castiel says, “Neither would I.” He looks down, and takes one of Sam’s hands, manhandling it between his own. Sam lets him, frowning as the angel inspects the length of his fingers, the arc of his wrist and the bend of his thumb. “I prefer you, Sam. I know that’s a terrible thing to say.”

Sam has no answer for that. He can’t move at all. Castiel releases his hand and the silence falls less easily and more like a blanket, heavy and warm. Castiel’s words are finally an acknowledgement, though. Whatever is between them isn’t over, even if it’s another problematic lie, another secret to keep.

Sam’s so busy thinking about that, that he misses the first flicker of pain that flashes across Castiel’s face. The second is more pronounced, and Sam does see that, immediately straightening his spine and laying his palm flat on the back of Castiel’s neck, not grasping or grabbing, simply placing his hand there. “Cas?” He doesn’t have to ask to know what’s wrong. He’s been there. “What’s he doing?”

Castiel lingers before he answers, “Scratching.” He rubs the heel of his palm across his forehead, eyes slipping closed.

“He’s not real,” Sam reminds Castiel, gently pressing his fingers into the angel’s neck. “I’m real, Cas. Look at me. Come on. Ignore him.” He squeezes his fingers.

Castiel does look at him then, drawing in a deep breath and holding his gaze until it passes and he says, “Thank you, Sam.”

The cabin door opens and Dean emerges, grabbing the attention of both of them as Sam drops away from Castiel. Sam catches a bag lobbed at him, throwing an insult in his brother’s direction as it slams into his chest, and Castiel dutifully catches one too.

“Nice day out,” Dean remarks, slinging a bag of his own - presumably fit to bursting with guns and salt and salt and Borax - over his shoulder. He smiles, lips tight. “Good day to murder a Dick.” 

He walks ahead of Sam down the path, his boots crunching over crisp ground. Castiel follows immediately at a brisk pace. The sunlight dapples over them, and Sam hums before trailing after the pair. 

It’s a pretty good day, yeah.


End file.
